The doll shop on Castle Street

There's a shop on Castle Street that sells old dolls. Porcelain faces, glass eyes, lace dresses gone the colour of tea. I went in once to get out of the rain.

The owner was a tall woman with very clean hands. She asked if I was looking for anything in particular. I said I was just browsing. She smiled and said, "Everyone is, at first."

I noticed the dolls were labelled. Not with prices. With names and dates. Eleanor, 1902. Thomas, 1956. Aisha, 2009.

Near the back there was a shelf with one empty stand on it. A small card was already in front of it, written in the same neat hand.

It had my name on it. And tomorrow's date.

I left without saying goodbye. The bell above the door rang behind me, and over it I heard her say, very kindly, "See you soon."

I haven't been back. But last night I woke up and couldn't move my arms, and when I looked down at my hands in the streetlight coming through the curtains, they looked smooth.

Smooth and white and shining, like a glazed cup.